


Ways to Go

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5404874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonight is the night. Aramis knows this. The night he'll ask Porthos to marry him. </p><p>And then Alice walks in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ways to Go

**Author's Note:**

> Random request I got a million years ago and I don't remember who and what the request was, only that it existed.

It’s been a long afternoon, not for any reason other than Aramis is a bundle of nerves. It’s to be expected. Hardly anyone can blame him for it (although d’Artagnan certainly _did_ since by the fifth frantic phone call, he’d said, point-blank, “Aramis, just ask the damn guy already so you can stop bothering me!” before Constance had taken the phone and talked Aramis down from a hyper-specific panic attack stemming from the idea of Porthos not wanting to be the one asked oh god Constance what should he do what can he do it’s too late now how oh god why—)

Time moved too slow, really. He’s spent the better part of the afternoon making sure his hair is just perfect in between frantic phone calls with Constance now (he didn’t even bother with Athos; Athos is the man you call when the plumbing has gone to shit and you need a good recommendation because Porthos isn’t home to fix things, he is not the man you call for a pep talk or any kind of emotional bonding). He’s made sure that his beard is shaved in just the way that Porthos likes – stubbly enough to feel against his thighs, soft enough to run his fingers against. 

Now he’s agonized for a good part of thirty minutes on whether or not he should go out and buy rose petals to sprinkle across the bed for when they return to the apartment together – hopefully triumphant, hopefully for Aramis to be laid out for the best fuck of his life, if he’s lucky. 

But before he can resolve to go and get the rose petals, Porthos comes home from work – all dimpling smiles and warm laughter. 

“What are you doing all dressed up?” he asks, looking pleased. He comes over towards him, hands sliding over his hips in greeting. Aramis can practically hear his pleased smile when he says, “Look at who’s the prettiest man in the world.”

Aramis laughs to cover the fact that he nearly startles out of his skin at Porthos’ sudden arrival, curtailed by the shiver that the hands on his hips illicit; he hadn’t realized how late it’s gotten, hadn’t expected Porthos back for at least another forty-five minutes. He also blushes, because at the heart of it, he is still that ridiculous fourteen-year-old meeting Porthos for the first time and falling hopelessly, tragically in love. He’s always been weak to the way Porthos’ voice pitches low when he’s looking at Aramis. 

He tugs Porthos down for a kiss, to cover for his nerves. Porthos hums out, soft, that perfect way he does – the way he just seems to melt into Aramis, even though he’s a little bit taller than him and certainly wider. His hands, heavy and warm, settle at his waist as they kiss. 

“I wanted to do something special tonight,” Aramis whispers when they draw away from the kiss. His eyes are warm when he looks at Porthos, lifts his hand to touch his cheek and pretends his hand isn’t trembling. “Get dressed. I have reservations at six.” 

Porthos hums out again, drops another kiss, and goes without a word to shower and get dressed up. He’s so very accommodating sometimes. Of course, this leaves Aramis alone for about twenty minutes with nothing to do but fumble around until he’s able to distract himself with helping Porthos pick out the best bowtie to wear, tie it up for him, and not allow himself to get distracted with thoughts of Porthos tying Aramis up instead. 

Now, a short while later, and he’s managed to wrangle Porthos into a suit and bowtie and they’re sitting at the incredibly fancy restaurant Aramis has called up for them. He’s been sitting on this reservation for months. 

This is the night. 

He knows it’ll be the night. He can feel the little box weighted in his jacket pocket. Porthos is smiling at him from across the table, all wide grins and boyish charm – he loves the fancier restaurants they don’t often frequent due to expenses. He’s shredding into a piece of bread and soaking it in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, glancing around to make sure he’s not doing some kind of faux-pas, and Aramis is so deliriously happy watching him that it’s almost pathetic. But he’s too happy. Tonight is the night. 

The words are there, he has it all prepared. He’s been planning this for months. 

“Porthos,” he begins, and smiles at him in a truly soppy and besotted way. He has to wait – he’s going to do it at dessert. But it’s also heaving up in his chest – it’s so close, he can hardly wait to tell him. Porthos gives him an indulgent smile in return. 

He’s been sitting on this for months – years. He’s been sitting on this since the moment he laid eyes on Porthos from across the long hallway of their public school where they met, Porthos half a foot taller than everyone else. He’d known then, looking at him. He had to have known then that this was the man he would spend the rest of his life with, that this is the man that he’d fall in love with so desperately and want to marry fifteen years later. 

He needs to wait until dessert. But then, Porthos looks so perfect – in the dim lighting of the restaurant, his eyes bright and warm, his hair that perfect length that Aramis loves, his beard trimmed, and wearing a purple bowtie and a bright smile. 

“Porthos,” Aramis begins, reaches out, covers his hand so that Porthos will stop shredding the oil-soaked bread. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a long time.” 

He pauses there, not sure what else to say. Porthos looks at him, expectant and curious. He smiles at him. Aramis smiles back, delirious with his joy. 

A long moment of silence passes. Aramis knows the silence is stretching too long. He just doesn’t know what to say. Maybe he should wait for dessert. 

And then Porthos looks up past his shoulder, briefly, blinks once. And then his face melts into one of surprise. “Alice!” 

Aramis blinks back. Then turns his head as Porthos stands from the table, smiling bright and open, and walks away from the table they were sitting at. 

And there she is – an old girlfriend, beautiful as the day she and Porthos parted ways, her hair curled up sweetly behind her head save for a few strands that frame her face, and she looks equally as surprised when Porthos calls out to her. 

“Porthos,” she says as Porthos lifts his hands, touches her arms and then takes her hands, squeezing, because he is an affectionate and wonderful man. Aramis feels the bottom of his stomach drop out from under him. 

He looks away as the two of them exchange pleasantries. He stares down at the table, at Porthos’ piece of bread on the plate of oil and vinegar. His shoulders are tense. He forces himself to breathe. He can hear the happiness in Porthos’ voice – the slightest, tiniest jagged edge of longing there. He and Alice broke up a few years ago, amicably, but Aramis remembers – he remembers how much Porthos loved her, how hard it was for him to say goodbye to her, how difficult it was for him to move on. 

They’d dated for a few years. Happily. But they’d both wanted different things. Alice, at least, had been honest about it with Porthos – they’d discussed it. They’d arrived at the conclusion like adults. Porthos could only ever say the kindest things about her and even years later wouldn’t allow for Aramis to say even a hint of a word against her. 

Alice is a perfectly lovely and sweet woman. 

Aramis has never hated someone as much as he does her. 

He turns around in his chair in time to see the way Porthos beams down at her, the way she touches his forearm gently and smiles back up at him. He feels the flare of jealousy. 

And then Alice shakes her head. “Oh, but you were at dinner, I shouldn’t interrupt.” 

_Too late for that,_ Aramis thinks, savage and uncharitable. 

“It’s fine,” Porthos says easily and Aramis feels the tension build in his shoulders. “It’s – it’s really good to see you.” 

Aramis knows the way his voice has gone soft, the way he’s smiling and looking at her – the aching detritus of love left over even after years. Porthos never was good at forgetting anyone he’s loved and let go of, much less Alice. 

“Oh,” Alice says, turns her head over her shoulder. “But, Porthos, this is my husband—”

And Aramis watches, as if in slow motion, as three things happen in quick succession. The first, Alice holds out her hand towards a man walking over towards them. The second, that the man is polite and a kind smile (utterly bland, perhaps somewhat attractive Aramis is willing to grant him). The third, though – the third is that Porthos’ smile dims just slightly and his jaw tightens. It is gone in a flash and it is only because Aramis swiveled his gaze straight to Porthos that he even witnessed that brief change. He’s smiling as before, gentle and warm, as he introduces himself to Alice’s husband – Aramis doesn’t catch his name, also doesn’t care, doesn’t care that he’s being utterly rude by not standing, by not acknowledging any of this. His eyes stay trained solely on Porthos.

He watches Porthos as he says his goodbyes to Alice again, somewhat brittle only to Aramis’ ears, and watches them as they’re seated across the restaurant. Aramis watches as Porthos watches Alice go, for the second time in his life. He watches, quiet, as Porthos turns, slumps a little, and sits back down in the seat across from Aramis. He watches as Porthos picks up his piece of bread and utterly shreds it to pieces, no intention of eating it. 

“Porthos…” Aramis begins, quiet.

“How about that,” Porthos interrupts, looking down at his plate with a small, brittle smile, “she got married.” 

Aramis swallows down thickly, feels the heavy weight of the rings in his suit pocket. 

Porthos is utterly silent as their appetizers are brought out and set before them. Porthos picks up his fork, twiddles with it, breathes out shakily, and then takes a clumsy bite of his salad. 

“Porthos,” Aramis begins again, somewhat desperately, trying to swallow down his jealousy and hatred in this moment. He reaches out, touches at the inside of Porthos’ wrist. The fork is shaking in his hand. 

“It’s alright,” Porthos says, looks up at him with a small smile. “What? Of course she would move on. Why shouldn’t she? She’s – that’s what she wanted.” 

“You wanted it, too,” Aramis says, swallows down the way his stomach twists up at the thought. He adds, “You wanted to marry her.” 

He hopes he doesn’t sound as disgusted as he feels. Porthos gives him a look – but it isn’t one of those sharp, angry ones he gets whenever Aramis starts veering towards Alice Disapproval. So he must be doing alright with it. Mostly, his concern for Porthos outweighs his frustration with Alice. 

Porthos shrugs. “I guess.” 

The bottom drops out of Aramis’ stomach. Porthos turns his head, looks across from the restaurant and pretends that he’s not looking directly at Alice as she laughs and chats with her husband. 

Aramis is suddenly not hungry. The rings in his pocket sit as a heavy burden. 

They get through the dinner and it’s an unpleasant affair after that. Aramis hardly knows what they talk about, or if they talk at all. Snow is starting to fall once they leave the restaurant and Aramis hunches into his coat, feeling cold and moody. This is usually the time when he’d drape himself over Porthos and ask him to keep him warm, maybe shimmy his cold hands under Porthos’ layers to press against his stomach just because it makes Porthos squirm and laugh and shove him away, like they’re sixteen again and Porthos has never fucking met Alice. 

They’re walking back home towards their apartment, snow lightly falling in the mid-December air. Aramis, unhappy and moody, doesn’t speak even as Porthos slowly and slowly curls into himself with his own thoughts. 

They make it about two blocks before Porthos heaves a mighty sigh and bumps his shoulder to Aramis’. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Porthos asks, more a prompt than a true query – undoubtedly Porthos knows what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” Aramis sniffs out, knows he’s being petulant, and also can’t stop himself from being so. 

Porthos sighs, slowly. “You’re upset about Alice.”

“I could not give a damn about Alice if I tried,” Aramis snaps back.

“ _Hey,_ ” Porthos answers, harsh, and Aramis does not flinch even if he knows he’s deserving of the sharpness to Porthos’ voice. 

Aramis looks away, miserable and knowing he is being terrible and unable to stop it. “What does it matter what I feel about her, anyway? You’re the one who loves her – who wants to marry her, if she hadn’t been snatched up by someone else.” 

Porthos sighs out. “What’s the matter with you?” 

“It hardly matters. Our night is ruined.”

“We could still salvage it,” Porthos mutters, hands shoving into his pockets and hunching into himself. “Look, let’s just not talk about Alice.”

“But you’re thinking about her!” 

“Can you blame me?” Porthos answers. “What would you do if you just ran into Agnes on the street unexpectedly, huh?” 

“That hardly matters,” Aramis mutters, voice going reedy and his heart twisting up. “And that’s hardly fair.” 

Porthos’ expression softens a fraction and he looks down. “I know. Sorry.” 

“I had a plan,” Aramis says, hollowly. They’ve walked past the street they turn off to get back to their home, and it seems they’re heading towards the park nearby. It’s just as well. Aramis shuffles his feet through snow collecting on the ground, feels cold all the way down to his toes. “A plan,” he adds, “that’s now completely ruined.”

“Want to tell me your plan?” Porthos prompts, clearly a peace offering. “We can get it back on track, if it matters that much.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Aramis says, and he can’t help but feel dramatic despite his efforts to not be. “It’s too late now.” 

“Aramis,” Porthos sighs out. They walk in silence for a moment and then Porthos reaches out, touches at Aramis’ arm, and tugs him to a stop. “Look, talk to me. What’s wrong? Is it just about Alice and the fact that she, what, exists?” 

“Yes!” He breathes out for a moment. “No,” Aramis admits. “It’s – God, the way you looked at her. I know you still love her. I know that we – I know that it’s…” 

He trails off, looks helplessly at Porthos. But Porthos says nothing, arms crossed, waiting for him to speak. 

“You wanted to marry her,” Aramis says, his voice misting out in the cold air. 

Porthos chews his lip, the inside of his cheek. He looks around, up at the sky, and heaves out a long breath. When he looks at Aramis again, his expression is calm. “Yeah. I did. And it didn’t work out – for different reasons. So why are we dwelling on it?” 

“Would you marry her even now?” Aramis asks. 

“Why does that matter? She’s remarried,” Porthos says. “With, I might add, someone who isn’t me. So I don’t even understand why we’re having this conversation.” Porthos breathes out. “Look, I… I know you never really got on with Alice. But we don’t have to keep talking about this, alright? I don’t want you getting all upset.” 

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Aramis snaps out, petulant. 

“… Do we need to talk about us dating other people again? You know I haven’t been with anyone for a while…” Porthos trails off. “Are you feeling anxious?” 

“No, no,” Aramis interrupts, shakes his head. That’s a conversation they don’t need to have tonight. “No, it’s…” He heaves a sigh. “It isn’t – this isn’t about you dating other people. You know that I’m okay with that.” 

And he is. It was always Alice that unsettled him – it was always that fear that Porthos would leave, be happy without Aramis in his life. And God, it isn’t that he doesn’t want Porthos to be happy. Of course he does. But God, he wants to be there, too, he wants to be part of his life, wants to be part of that happiness—

“What is it then, Aramis?” Porthos prompts, voice quieter now. His hand cups Aramis’ elbow, his touch gentle – and he’s so unbearably soothing like this, even when Aramis knows he’s frustrated and confused. Aramis does not deserve him. And, more importantly, Porthos deserves someone amazing who doesn’t act like a child like this—

He deserves someone like Alice, his mind things in its betrayal. 

Porthos studies his face. His lips twist up into an unpleasant grimace and it looks so wrong on his face. Porthos should always be smiling. “You can’t get angry with me over a bunch of what-ifs.”

“I know,” Aramis says miserably, his shoulders tensing up. 

Porthos adds, “I’m not with Alice anymore.”

“I know that,” Aramis answers, miserable. 

Porthos nods. “I’m with _you._ ” 

“But you don’t want it!” Aramis forces out, somewhat hysterical. “You don’t want it but it’s – of course it’s – I’m just not someone you’d want to marry!” 

Likely, that is not what Porthos was expecting. There’s a long moment of silence. Porthos blinks at him. 

“What?” Porthos asks, looks like he’s been slapped in the face. He physically reels back from Aramis’ words. “What are you _talking about_?” 

Aramis stares at him in a somewhat muted shock, the words a surprise to even himself. 

“It’s – it’s the truth,” Aramis says, gasping out. “I’m a fool.” 

“Aramis, what—”

“You don’t want to get married to me!” Aramis gasps out. “I’m an idiot to think otherwise!” 

“Who said anything about marriage for us?” Porthos asks. Aramis lets out a mournful little sound, a confirmation to his greatest fear – and Porthos lifts a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, visibly frustrated. He shakes his head. “I’ve missed part of this conversation. Aramis. You have to—”

Aramis wrenches the box from his suit jacket and shoves it at Porthos, flapping his hand around in some kind of silent reiteration of his distress. Porthos stares in shock, first at him and then down at the box now sitting snug on his hand. 

“This!” Aramis gasps out. “You don’t want this! I was a fool to think this could ever work!” 

“What—”

“It’s not like I don’t understand,” Aramis begins, slightly hysterical. “I am, after all, me—”

“You want to get married?” Porthos interrupts, staring at him. He stares down at the box in his cupped hand, then up at him. 

“Of course I do!” Aramis says, voice pitching a little higher than he’d intended. “Why – why shouldn’t I want that, with you?” 

“I don’t know,” Porthos says, somewhat mystified. “I just – assumed. We’ve never, you know, been totally exclusive – and you and —”

“I’m talking about us right now!” Aramis interrupts, shaking his head violently. “Porthos – Porthos, of course I’d want to marry you! But you wouldn’t want to marry me! I know I’m not – I know of course I’m not exactly the expected type for marriage, but I—”

He starts to ramble. He knows he is. He cannot stop it. 

“I saw the way you looked at Alice,” Aramis continues. “Years ago and now. I know how you felt after you broke up. I know that I don’t – I know that the nature of our relationship over the years likely made you feel that I didn’t love you enough—”

“Aramis,” Porthos interrupts. “I’ve _never_ felt that. You’re—”

“I always get so unbearably jealous but you never complain when I date someone else,” Aramis continues on. “It isn’t fair. I know we’ve talked about it. But of course you’d look to other people to marry them, rather than me—”

“ _Aramis,_ ” Porthos says, desperately. 

“But, honestly, look at you. Who wouldn’t want to marry you? You are _perfect_ ,” he says and powers along before Porthos can interrupt again, “No, no, it’s true. You really are. I won’t let you say anything bad about you otherwise.” 

Porthos sighs out – but at least looks less angry now and more alarmed, confused. Maybe a little hurt. Aramis’ heart thunders in his chest. Suddenly he does feel too warm, but that might be because he’s sweating. This is not the way he planned for tonight to go. The rings are still in the box held in Porthos’ hand, slightly mystified. He hasn’t given it back. He hasn’t even opened it to look at them. This only proves Aramis’ frantic thoughts. 

“You’d be much happier in an exclusive relationship, I’m sure,” Aramis continues. “Marrying me – what a ridiculous thought that was! Who would want that? Especially you!” 

“Aramis—”

Porthos’ look is softer now. Aramis’ heart lodges up into his throat. 

“And anyway,” Aramis continues even as Porthos steps towards him, touches at his shoulder. He should move back. This is the worst break-up he’s ever done, really, but it hurts too much – he’s been in love with Porthos for well over a decade, almost two at this point. This isn’t how the night was supposed to go. “And anyway,” he says again, tries to resume his thoughts, “you’d be much happier—”

“Says who?” Porthos interrupts, quieter now.

But Aramis continues rattling on, “—you are, after all, devastatingly gorgeous. Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve gone so long without dating anyone else. You really should. You’ll bounce back from this, I’m sure. Find a beautiful woman to love and marry. Children. I bet maybe five? You’d be happy with a big family. And as long as I can come over every so often to be the uncle, if your wife will allow it—”

“Aramis,” Porthos tries to interrupt. He is, it seems, laughing now – at the ridiculousness of it all. Or, Aramis fears, at how pathetic Aramis is. 

“I can’t blame you for that dream,” Aramis says.

“That’s your dream for me,” Porthos reminds him, eyebrows lifting. “Hey — _hey_ , you ridiculous man, will you listen for a moment?” 

Aramis, somewhat tragically, cannot think to himself to stop speaking because stopping means admitting that it’s over, or hearing Porthos say the dreaded _you’re right._

“And anyway,” Aramis says, hysterical now, even as Porthos reaches out to take his hand. “I would be a terrible husband,” he begins, watches as Porthos draws his hand closer. He keeps rambling on – something about Porthos’ retirement fund – as Porthos ducks his head and kisses the back of Aramis’ hand. The retirement fund moves on to a dental plan as Porthos’ thumb drags slowly over his knuckles. He’s waiting, clearly, but Aramis can’t stop. Eventually, though, Porthos heaves a sigh. 

“You’re really not going to stop?” Porthos asks him around Aramis’ long-winded explanation of what his front lawn would look like with his perfect wife. 

Aramis shakes his head – breathless, his words interrupted by a stupid hiccup and good Lord _why can’t he just shut the fuck up now?_ His usual approach to these things is to go deathly silent and withdrawn. Now, he just feels like a ridiculous teenager all over again, like the first night he ever asked Porthos out. 

“I’d be a terrible husband,” he says again.

“I don’t know about that,” Porthos answers, gentle. 

“No, no, I would be.” He can’t stop speaking, even if his eyes do widen as Porthos slips open the box. “And I’m horrendous at most things domestic, despite my best efforts.” Porthos is taking out the ring, studying it carefully. “I can’t imagine I’d be anything expected,” he gasps out, his voice going suddenly breathless as Porthos slips the ring onto Aramis’ finger. “And I’m… I’m also very…” 

Finally, blissfully, he trails off, blinking rapidly. He stares down at their hands. And then, suddenly, it all crashes down on him and he’s trying to fight down the ridiculous smile that’s threatening to bloom across his face. Porthos is already grinning at him, boyish and lovely like the first day they ever met. There’s snow in his hair. 

“And I’m very…” Aramis swallows down, “so hopelessly in love with you, it’s a little unsettling.” 

“Clearly,” Porthos answers. His smile goes crooked and he crowds up to Aramis, cupping his face and kissing him truly breathless. 

“Wait, wait,” Aramis gasps out, pushes him back, and fumbles to take the box from Porthos’ hands, taking out the second ring and slipping it onto Porthos’ finger. He sniffles and will fully blame the cold winter air for it later. In fact, he’ll blame the cold weather for all his sudden insanity tonight. “You didn’t even let me get down on one knee. I had it all planned out.” 

“You are _terrible_ at this,” Porthos whispers, his voice thick. This close, Aramis can see the snowflakes on his eyelashes. He can also see the way Porthos’ eyes have gone misty. 

“Yes… Yes, I think I really am,” Aramis says, shaking his head. 

“I love you,” Porthos interrupts. “And of course I’d marry you, you goddamn idiot.” 

“That’s not very nice,” Aramis says faintly. 

“I’m not letting you talk again for a while,” Porthos says. 

“Good idea,” Aramis whispers. “Porthos, I—”

“We can talk about this all later,” Porthos interrupts. “For now, just – just kiss me.” 

Aramis is more than happy to comply.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), should you need me.


End file.
